The Grist of Her Mill
by SilentG
Summary: Someone at Hogwarts is addicted to Muggle romance novels - writing them, that is! How far will Severus Snape go to prevent Hermione Granger from learning his shameful secret?
1. Chapter 00 Notes & Disclaimers

**The Grist of Her Mill**

_**By SilentG **_

**Notes & Disclaimers**

**Author's Notes:**

This fic was written in response to the 'Mills & Boon' challenge on WIKTT (www.groups.yahoo.com/group/whenikissedtheteacher/). The challenge rules are in a separate chapter because they contain spoilers.

If you're curious to know about Mills & Boon, check out the website provided by **Isirta2001, the issuer of the challenge: http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/UK/. **

The ship is SS/HG, although you wouldn't know to read it (yet), and it's rated PG-13 for significant glances and pitiless mockery of the pulp romance genre.

This story and others by me (SilentG) and others will be archived at www.darkregard.com, a note-worthy HP Fanfic demesne.

**Disclaimers:**

I own nothing except the computer this story was typed on. All belongs to JKRowling, may her star shine ever brighter and her sun never set.


	2. Chapter 01 Boy Meets Girl

**The Grist of Her Mill**

**_By SilentG ___**

**Chapter 1**

The entire Upper Sixth was in the _Mid-May Doldrums_. At least that was what Hermione Granger told herself when she asked herself, later, how the whole schlimazel started.

It was the soul-sucking three-week period between the end of new material and the beginning of NEWTs – spirits were low and pranks and misbehaviour were high. Ostensibly, the time was for revision: (most) classes were into review, professors were holding study groups and arranging tutoring, and organised students (like Hermione) were busy organising others. But Oh, the call of the sunshine and sweet grass outside! Oh, the stale dry stickiness of the air inside! Oh, the tickle of butterfly wings tattooing _freedom_ on a ribcage! Although she'd never admit it, even the Unstoppable Miss Granger was finding it hard to concentrate, with the combined stimulus of summer and graduation begging for her attention.

Then there was the dubious influence of her friends…

"Why don't they hold exams at the beginning of the year – get them out of the way," Ron said glumly to no-one in particular, after heaving a huge sigh at the sight of the stack of potions books on the table at the far end of the library. He was the first Gryffindor to arrive today at the ad-hoc Inter-House study group that had been meeting every Saturday morning since February. Attendance waxed and waned, although certain members (mostly Ravenclaws, and Hermione) had been regulars since the beginning. Today, he was in the company of four Ravenclaws and a Hufflepuff, and Hermione and Harry were both expected.

As he seated himself (reluctantly) at the table, Hermione hove into view, flanked by Lavender and Parvati. The two girls were obviously there under duress, caught in the Granger undertow. Lavender was carrying nothing but a paperback and a quill, and Parvati, looking a little teary-eyed, appeared to have her hair done up in curling papers. Catching Ron's eye, Hermione drooped her eyelids and rolled her eyeballs back in her _long-suffering_ look, an unfortunate inheritance from Professor Snape, adopted sometime during the last year and roundly disapproved of by the Gryffindor student body.

"Where's Harry?" Lavender and Parvati said in unison as the trio sat. Without waiting for a reply, Lavender opened her book at a spot marked by an owl feather, and started reading. Parvati took out a parchment and quill, not too speedily, and sat with slumped shoulders, scowling sidewise at Hermione.

"Harry. Is out. Flying." Hermione said with a sniff, as she picked up the disused books from the table and sorted them alphabetically.

"Oh, Quidditch practice?" Padma asked, obviously not recognising Hermione's tone, which forbade further discussion.

"No. Just. Flying."

The six seated students exchanged resigned but knowing glances as Hermione arose abruptly and stomped around the table, tossing pages of notes in front of each person and uttering little 'tsk's of exasperation, presumably at the state of the students' revisions, but who could be sure??

"Which is it today, Miss Prissy – or Miss Pissy," Ron said to Padma in a stage whisper. The muted laughter of the assembly drowned out the exaggerated scraping of Hermione's chair as she dragged it under her towards the table as she sat. Over their heads, thin shafts of sunlight warmed and beckoned, but only the dust-motes seemed to respond, dancing in the library's mouldy updrafts. 

Just then, Harry appeared, sweaty and beaming, picking up his book-bag from beside Ron before sitting down. "Ta, mate," he said, in the affected manner he'd picked up from a burly All-England seeker from Liverpool who'd mentored him at Quidditch Camp the previous summer. Hermione did her eye-rolling trick again, and this time was joined by the other Gryffindors at the table. Harry's currency was a little low at the moment, having lost innumerable House points that year, mostly in pursuit of adventure and mayhem such as would credit the Godson of The Swagger That Walked (as Gred and Forge privately called Sirius Black). The highlight of the twins' summer was when Sirius solemnly told them that their nickname for him was 'redundant', since 'swagger was a synonym for walk'. The two managed to keep a straight face until they escaped the kitchen at The Burrow, and spent the rest of the week perfecting their imitation of him.

Unfortunately, Harry was also perfecting his own imitation of the infamous Marauder, the reason why this year, Gryffindor was relying solely on Hermione's marks to keep it out of last place in the House Cup standings. It was no wonder, really, that she was so moody.

"Right. In front of each of you is a sample essay question, one of the known components of the Potions final. This will be an _in-class_ essay, so each of us will have to rely on our actual writing abilities, not our skills in sleep-deprivation, paraphrasing or forgery." Hermione looked pointedly at Ron at the conclusion of this speech. She continued, "We each have a different question – to cover as much ground as possible. For the next hour we're each going to write a sample essay on the presented topic without books or notes, then we're going to switch questions; at which time we'll spend two hours writing a similar essay, of a similar length, this time using reference materials. Remember, top marks are for essays that are complete, succinct and accurate. Eloquence counts for nothing in Potions." She spoke in clipped tones, trying vainly to catch Lavender's eye. 

"When we're finished, I'll duplicate the essays," this said with noticeable pride, "and we'll each critique them all. Hopefully the results, at least the on-book ones, will be good enough to use as a study guide. If not, we'll at least know what we need to work on. Any questions?" 

An outside observer would be surprised, possibly, at the meek acquiescence of the assembled students; the mood was of gloomy, resigned doggedness (if there is such a thing), as they all (including Lavender, who'd reluctantly closed her book) shifted and rustled and took their positions for battle with the Potions essays.

-*~~*~~*-

_One hour later…___

"Time's up. Switch essay questions. On book now - you may use your own notes also. No talking. Each of you will find at least one textbook in the pile that matches your essay question exactly." A chorus of groans met Hermione's pronouncement, and Parvati, handing Lavender borrowed parchment for her essay, spoke up.

"'Mione, you must be joking. Didn't you just say last week that the human brain needs an hour of rest after each hour of study? You can't expect us to go straight on, my brain's positively mush."

"It's ten minutes, actually, but yes, OK, we'll take a break. Ten minutes, no more. You don't expect Snape to give us a break, do you?"

"Certainly not, Miss Granger, not at this, your penultimate hour. Although I might wish, however futilely, to give myself one." The subject of discussion stood perfectly still behind Hermione's chair, and Ron could see the uncertainty on her face as she tried to decide whether it would be better to sit calmly and await his next declaration, or to show docile approval by craning her neck around to observe her favourite teacher. "And Miss Patil, if your brain is truly mush, perhaps you might consider donating it to the Potions Laboratory at St. Mungo's…or perhaps the canteen." Glancing briefly at Lavender's book, a small Muggle paperback out-of-place amongst the hide-bound Potions tomes, Snape pivoted noiselessly on his heel and swept off just as Hermione turned to look at him.

"Honestly. That man is a menace to education. I don't know how you tolerate him, Hermione; he's an utter prat." Harry snorted at Ron's comment and decisively turned his essay parchments face-down on the table. The rest of the students followed suit, and the brief break flew by in a flurry of jumbled conversation.

"Lavender, what is that you're reading?" Harry, who had been speaking to Ron for most of the break (probably 'discussing broom technique', as they were wont to say, with a smirk, when asked) inquired of his House-mate. Lavender had been absorbed in her book since she put her quill down, and curiosity spread to the rest of the table as she fidgeted self-consciously with the feather she'd been using as a bookmark.

"Probably one of the Muggle romance novels she's been hoarding since last summer," Parvati replied. "She's addicted to them – I'm surprised no-one's noticed it before." Lavender's glower was enough to cut off her best friend at the pass, but Harry wasn't to be put off so easily. 

"Oh yes, _Mills & Boon_, I suspect. Aunt Petunia's positively _devoted_ to them." Harry batted his eyelashes as he spoke, drawing a anonymous kick from under the table.

"Well, let's see it then," Ron said, taking up the torch of male superiority in the face of feminine recreation with an outstretched hand. Lavender, seeing the futility of protest, handed the book to him with a sigh. Ron held the book up for the whole table to see, revealing a cheesy front cover of sun, sand and a timid-looking girl in a string bikini, and the words

**DANGEROUS ESCAPISM******

**_By Lottie Guenther_****__**

There were giggles from the Ravenclaws, even the boys, and Harry snorted. "Yup, _Mills & Boon_, no doubt about it. I don't need to read the back cover to know what it's about. _Boy meets girl. Boy verbally abuses girl, to hide his unbearable attraction. Girl retreats into her own little world. Girl gets into a tricky situation over a pound-note. Boy rescues girl. Boy berates girl. Girl falls in love with boy. Boy ultimately shows signs of affection. Boy ultimately shows signs of arousal. Boy and girl bog off, leaving shagging to the imagination of the reader. The End_." The whole table laughed out loud, including Lavender but excluding Hermione, and Madam Pince made a brief stop at the table to shush them.

"Very funny, Potter, but let's hear what it's about," Terry Boot, a Ravenclaw, said with a wink in Padma's direction. "Go on Ron, read the back." A chorus of agreement met this statement, and Ron turned the book over. As he began to read, Lavender looked pointedly at a spot on the table.

_Penniless and abandoned in a Spanish paradise, Callisto Farmer is befriended by a kindly Englishwoman on the Costa Del Sol. But as this innocent-seeming grandmother gains her trust, what danger is lurking on the hot Moorish sands? Callisto finds out, when she is unexpectedly confronted by the one man she'd like to forget, the man she never thought she'd meet again.___

_More troubles await the beautiful young researcher as she returns to London to find her position made redundant and her flat ransacked. Is the mysterious, dark stranger lurking at her doorstep a friend…or something else, something… more?___

"Is it some kind of mystery?" Ron asked Harry (obviously the resident expert) when the former finished reading.

"Oh no. You know those jacket descriptions – they always hint at things that are utter rubbish. She was probably on the Spanish Coast for a vacation with her brother's best friend, whom she expected to propose marriage to her, but who instead left her flat when she refused to sleep with him. The man she'd like to forget is probably the same guy as the dark stranger, and the reason she'd like to forget him is likely because he gave her a bad employee review for her assembly-line job at the chocolate-making factory. The kindly old woman is probably his mother, the danger is not likely to be worse than sunburn, and the only mystery is why anyone would ever read more than one."

Sensing an appreciative audience, Harry's speech gained strength and emphasis, and he finished with a triumphant flourish of his still-gloved left hand, in an unconscious imitation of a Matador. He wasn't disappointed. The roar of approval that met his conclusion brought another visit from Madam Pince, as Hermione looked irritably at her pocket watch. "Oh, and that name, _Lottie Guenther_…probably a pseudonym. The author's most likely a man. Yes, men do write them, but the, er, people who buy these types of books apparently don't want to read them if they're written by a bloke. After all, we don't know anything about romance." Harry smirked at his own wit, and the other males at the table snickered appreciatively.

"Sounds like you are quite the expert, _Mr_ Potter. Perhaps _too_ expert. Tell me, Harry, how may have _you_ read? Or perhaps you wrote one?!?" Lavender crooked an eyebrow at Harry and asked the question with some asperity, but no heat. Happily, the collective gaze of the study-group returned to The Boy Who Lived, and it was his turn to squirm at the attention.

Harry was saved from answering by Hermione, who hissed to them _sotto voce_ to get started with their essays, on pain of failure, torture, and public humiliation. The next two hours passed in comparative silence. No-one noticed Hermione staring fixedly at the cover of the little book for the 10 minutes before their two hours were up.

-*~~*~~*-

By the end of three hours of solid essay writing, they were all in, and by unanimous vote (with the chair abstaining) they over-rode Hermione's original plan and agreed to evaluate the essays later and compare notes. Collecting her books, Hermione left the library in a huff, with Harry looking on with some regret. Ron had found the study session extremely gruelling and was just buoyant with relief that it was over.

"Crikey, Harry, I can't imagine that our Potions final will be that tough. If it is, I'm sunk," he said as they gathered their things and left the library. The plan was, a quick trip to the Gryffindor Tower to unload their bits and pieces (and check up on Hermione), and then off to dinner. Hopefully there would still be a bit of sun left to enjoy afterwards. Preferably airborne.

"Ron, I wouldn't be a bit surprised. You know that Potions and Transfiguration are both going to be murder. It's inconvenient, but really lucky in the long run that we have Hermione to whip us into shape…I don't like to think what our time here would have been like if we hadn't had her to prop us up. Speaking of which, I want to make sure she's OK before we go to dinner. You with me?"

"Er, Harry, you don't think she'll make us do more work if she finds us? I mean, she's had time to get her second wind." Ron looked positively pained at the idea.

"No, Ron, I don't. But if she does, we'll just have to tell her that we're growing boys, and dinner comes first! And speaking of which, Ron, you know the Muggle saying 'man cannot live by bread alone'?" Ron nodded. "That book of Lavender's gave me the wickedest idea for a prank…"

The two friends caught up with Lavender and Parvati on the way to the Gryffindor tower. They chatted about the study group, Quidditch, finals, and by the time they got to the Fat Lady, Ron had forgotten all about his essay stress.

"Tender Tootsies. Lavender, no hard feelings about today, huh?"

"No, Harry, if you forgive me for outing you as a romance novelist." Harry allowed the two girls to precede him through the door – Ron had already stepped through and was doubtlessly sneaking up to the boys' dorms as fast as his legs would carry him.

"No, no problem. And Parvati, what on earth is going on with your hair?"

Lavender answered, glad to have a chance to get revenge on her best friend. "Well, while I've been on my fluff kick, Parvati's been going nutso over historical romances. She's been on a big Georgette Heyer binge, and she decided today to style her hair like a Regency Lady of Quality. Somehow, the spell doesn't seem to work too well when you're using 1820's Muggle hair supplies, and this is the result." It was Lavender's turn to snicker, and Parvati turned wordlessly and ascended the stairs.

_____________________________________

**A/N: **Any resemblance you see to actual romance novels may be credited to my pre-pubescent devotion to Harlequin Romances. I can't vouch for their authenticity v/v modern stories, as the books I read were c. 1974-79.

This story, like all my others, has unavoidable Blackadder references. Kudos to you if you recognise them. Congratulatory emails to you if you tell me about them.

There is also a shameless self-reference, to my paragon of spell-checked smut (aka erotica) Dangerous Escapism.

The name of our Mills & Boon heroine _Callisto Farmer_ is not a random choice. Any ideas?

In addition to Blackadder, there is also a reference to what I consider the funniest half-hour of television, **_ever_** – an episode of the I Love Lucy show.

My fave _Georgette Heyer_ book is A Lady of Quality. Guess who I imagine in the role of the hero??!! And…if you're interested in finding out more about the Regency Period about which she wrote, here's an URL: http://laura.chinet.com/html/recipes.html

Kudos or flames? email me!. 

Many thanks to **Lauren** for critiquing my work, to **Isirta2001 for posting the challenge, and to **WIKTT** for their inspiration.**

TBC

Upload Date: 20-Sep-02

2889 


	3. Chapter 02 Boy verbally abuses girl, to...

**The Grist of Her Mill**

**_By SilentG _**

**Chapter 2**

Sunday passed uneventfully for the trio. Hermione spent the morning critiquing her own Potions essays, and the rest of the day meeting with each of the other study-group members, analysing and improving on their work. Ron and Harry, she was happy to note, spent the whole day in the Common Room with their heads bent over a parchment. And if there were occasional bursts of laughter coming from that lonely and studious quarter, she didn't happen to notice.

At Monday morning breakfast, Hermione passed notes around to the study group members asking them to hand in their essays to her so that she could duplicate and distribute them. "Why not hand them out to the whole year," Harry said in a burst of generosity. "I mean, it isn't cheating, and if none of the others mind…"

Hermione thought over the idea, but only briefly. Actually, she was very proud of Harry, he was finally getting the hang of cooperative schoolwork. "Alright, Harry, let's do it. Ask everyone from Saturday first, of course. And be sure to let everyone know that it's your idea." 

"Oh I will, Hermione, you can count on it."

-*~~*~~*-

First class was, as always, Double Potions with Slytherin. Hermione noticed that, while over the years she'd become somewhat inured to the irritating traits of Professor Snape's pet students, she still preferred the classes that Gryffindor shared with Ravenclaw. In fact, she often wondered why the Sorting Hat had not placed her in that particular house, sympathetic as it was to her own frame of mind. She could only think that whatever qualities had caused her to find her way into Gryffindor, would make themselves known in the fight with Voldemort that they all knew was to come. And she could only hope that she would live up to her billing.

Potions class that day was either interesting or irritating, depending on your point of view. Professor Snape was one of only two teachers (the other being Trelawney) who were still covering new material, so it was more business as usual than the rest of the day. Hermione liked it, keen as she was to learn all there was to know; but her house-mates, notably Harry and Ron, were dismayed at the loss of valuable goof-off time, constrained as they were to actually listening and taking notes.

She noticed that Lavender surreptitiously managed to continue reading her little _novel, leaving the bulk of the class-work to her lab partner Parvati. _

Regarding that book. Hermione was torn between feelings of revulsion and intense curiosity. She had actually seen that exact book, and others by the same author, in her parents' library at home. Pride had kept her from doing more than a casual skim, even in privacy, loath as she was to indulge herself in any of what she considered her mother's weaknesses.

But here, at Hogwarts, away from the creeping inevitability of time and genes, she felt freer to indulge in the feminine pastimes that, at home, would have seemed to her too much like walking a trail blazed by her mother. Her mother's habits and aspect were already a sufficient harbinger of Hermione's future, thank you very much.

She went robotically through the motions of making her potion, one of several medi-wizardry concoctions they were learning, while most of her brain-power was occupied with trying to recall the book's plot. From what she could remember, Harry was not far off, at least in some respects...

Her musings were cut short by an accident at the back of the classroom. Not Neville this time, but Millicent Bulstrode and Draco Malfoy, and _accident was probably the wrong definition. The Gryffindor/Slytherin potions classes had been much more serene since Neville dropped his least favourite subject after a disastrous showing at OWLs, but one unfortunate side-effect was that Snape was reduced to picking on other students to test potions - and students he suspected of botching their assignments were his most frequent targets._

Millicent was an obtuse but methodical student, and her pairing with the rather gifted young Malfoy ensured that she was usually passed over for guinea-pig duty. Their partnership had heretofore survived all of their internecine squabbles (mostly of a romantic nature), but it had been common gossip around the school that the two had recently had a large, possibly irreparable falling-out, and that fact was most apparent in Potions class.

Regrettably, the friction between the two had drawn the attention of their Head-of-House, who appeared keen to have them test the topical anaesthetic potion they had been told to brew.

If the tables had been turned, and it had been Millicent who was the gifted brewer, Hermione would have guessed that the potion (whose application on Mr Malfoy sent him to the Infirmary with half his body totally numb) had been botched on purpose. 

As it was, Hermione thought it was just luck that had Snape test the potion on Malfoy first. For a moment, it appeared as though he meant for Millicent to try it anyway, even as Draco lurched around the room with a lazy left eye and spit dribbling out of half his mouth; but the magical chime heralded the end of class, and Snape was forced to be satisfied with taking points from Ron and Harry for distracting his (ostensibly) favourite students, to the obvious detriment of their work.

"Miss Granger – please stay on a moment." Most of the students had already left, giving Millicent and Draco's cauldron a wide berth on their way out; but as usual, Hermione was still carefully stowing her Potions implements in her neat, oversized rucksack. She left what she was doing and approached Snape's desk.

"Yes, sir?"

"I heard mention that you and your merry band of miscreants actually got some Potions examination-prep work done on the weekend. What exactly did you accomplish?" Elbows on the desk, Snape pressed his lips against his steepled fingers, and his cold face betrayed nothing. Only his voice showed a hint of genuine curiosity.

"Yes Professor, we did practice Potions essays, on ten different topics. I'm making copies right now to pass out as a study guide. May I ask why you're interested?" Hermione knew that she was taking a chance asking such a forward question, but her instincts told her that she wouldn't be chewed out. This time.

"I'm just concerned that you don't lead your little Gryffindor and Ravenclaw lemmings down the garden path, so to speak. I am fairly confident in your abilities, but as you seem to have turned into an ersatz student teacher, emphasis on the _student, I feel a certain responsibility to ensure the consistency of your materials. I assume that it would not be outside your abilities to include me in your list of recipients?" Snape's explanation sounded a little off to Hermione, and if she read him correctly, by the look on his face he didn't like it much either. A look of consternation accompanied his short speech, and the set of his thin lips seemed to convey the impression that they wished to retract the words that passed through them._

For a few seconds they just looked at each other, then Hermione said, "Hmmm. Yes, certainly Professor, that wouldn't be a problem." After quickly filing a mental note to copy an extra set of essays, her attention turned with concern to a disturbing thought. "You won't be including them in your final marks, will you? I know that several ... er," she hesitated as she suddenly realised what she was saying, but Snape's expectant face told her it was too late to take back her words, "...erm, there are one or two members of the study group who would be very worried if they thought you were going to be including that work in your evaluations," she concluded dejectedly, dismayed at the predatory gleam that lit up her teacher's shark-like black eyes.

"I promise nothing, Miss Granger, but I am prepared to make the private statement that no student's marks will go _down as a result of the content of their essays."_

"Thank you, Sir. Professor, there are no names on the parchments, we weren't expecting to do anything formal with them. Do you wish me to label them with the names of the students for you?"

Snape shook his head in the negative. "I have marked your _mostly," he inclined his head faintly in her direction, as if in acknowledgement, "puerile meanderings for seven long years, it will not be difficult for me to tell whose work I am reading, especially since there are only ten of you and I already encountered your little group at the library this past weekend." Apparently surprised at his own words, Snape appeared for an instant to be casting around for something else to say – then appeared to abandon the notion. Abruptly, he continued. "Thank you, Miss Granger, that will be all." Snape nodded at her again, more curtly this time, and stood up to take his customary turn around the room, looking for messes, stragglers, and other things to be mad about._

Both spotted the object at the same time, and each noticed the other noticing it.

Hermione expected a cutting remark about her oft-absentminded and flighty housemate, but Snape just turned quickly away and stood by the entranceway to his classroom, for all appearances trying to hasten her departure by hustling her out the door.

Swallowing her own exclamation of exasperation at Lavender's oversight, Hermione detoured along the middle aisle of worktables in order to pick up the offending object. She was surprised to see, out of the corner of her eye, a small start from the Potions master.

"Does that book belong to you, Miss Granger?" He had apparently changed his mind about shooing her from his classroom, and instead moved to block her way as she passed. Closer than an arm's length from her forbidding favourite teacher, Hermione looked up and felt her breath catch in her throat.

"It's, um, Lavender's, Sir. I'm sure she didn't mean to leave it. I'll just take it for her, shall I?" She thought for a moment that Professor Snape was going to confiscate it. He looked at the small volume in her hand as if he wanted to throw it into a boiling cauldron of Armadillo Bile. Then, his demeanour changed entirely and he regarded Hermione as he would a clueless first-year, who he would just as soon feed Skele-Gro to as see out the door.

"Yes indeed, Miss Granger. I cannot think what would become of your house-mates if you were not there to pick up after them, provide homework for them to copy, and to wipe their chins when they drink Turtle Soup." And with that, he turned and swished off, leaving Hermione to depart alone with a conflicted, if rather whimsical, image to process.

-*~~*~~*-

The more she thought about it, the more it seemed odd the way Professor Snape had behaved after class. His conversation, for it was indeed that, seemed out-of-character. And, the way he got on about the book – was very difficult to interpret. He almost seemed … embarrassed. _Aah…, so that's it. Blushing at evidence of feminine romanticism. How prosaic._

_____________________________________

**A/N:** One of my readers asked about the word 'schlimazel', from Chapter 1. It's a Yiddish word, although as my friend pointed out, it has a German counterpart (probably adopted from the Yiddish, since the word translates loosely to 'bad luck', using the same word, 'mazel' that Mazeltov uses.) Anyone old enough to watch Laverne and Shirley will recognise the word from the beginning of their TV show: "Schlemiel, schlimazel, hasenpfeffer incorporated!" BTW, a schlemiel is a cross between a schmo and a yutz.

Kudos or flames? Leave a review, or email me!. 

Many thanks to **Lauren** for critiquing my work, to **Isirta2001 for posting the challenge, and to **WIKTT** for their inspiration.**

TBC

Upload Date: 21-Sep-02

1913


	4. Chapter 03 Girl retreats into her own l...

**The Grist of Her Mill**

_**By SilentG **_

**Chapter 3**

While it was interesting to speculate about The Mystery of the Magically Disappearing Predictable Potions Professor (Hellllloooo Wilma, where's Scooby?), what really captivated Hermione's attention at the moment she left the Dungeons was the book in her hand.

Now that she had it, she saw no reason not to read it. It looked like a quickie, she could probably finish it in an afternoon, and surely Lavender wouldn't mind if...

If Hermione was mysteriously unavailable for the next few hours, and didn't return the book to Lavender (whom she'd been tirelessly searching for, of course) until the evening meal.

Unfortunately, she had the Potions practice essays to copy and hand out, and Ron and Harry hadn't handed theirs in yet (surprise surprise). Owing to Harry's generosity, it would be a bigger job than she'd intended, with copies of all twenty essays (two from each of the ten study-group members) going to the entire Upper Sixth.

Heading to the Great Hall in search of the boys, Hermione plotted. She could probably finish the story in a few hours, so if she was willing to skip dinner, she could read it in Susan's office…

Yes, this was why it was so convenient to have the password to the private study of the Head Girl, Susan Bones. An open invitation since the beginning of the year, from one bookworm to another, an invitation seldom taken up on simply because both of them were almost always in the Library. Perfect. She'd see Susan when she handed out the essays, so she could ask her then if it was all right. Having made up her mind, she advanced on the Dining Hall with a quickened step.

-*~~*~~*-

Arriving at the Gryffindor table at a little after 11:00, she found only Colin and Seamus, but she didn't have long to wait. She had barely gotten herself settled and opened her mouth to ask the two boys if they'd seen either of her two best friends, when Harry appeared through the entrance doors.

"Hello, lads, Hermione," he said in his irritatingly affected _hail-fellow-well-met_ Quidditch Star voice, as he plunked himself down beside her. "I come bearing epistles of arcane knowledge. Wanna see?"

"Yes thanks, Harry, I'll just have a quick look through them, if you don't mind." Harry handed the wad to his friend, who spread the pages carefully in front of her. The table was silent, all eyes on her, as myriad tiny changes in her facial expression captured the attention of the three boys. Colin frowned as she pursed her lips, smiled when she grunted in what sounded like appreciation, and visibly relaxed when she rolled the parchment neatly and turned to Harry with an only faintly superior air. "Those are quite good. You two should be proud of yourselves. I don't think you'll do half-bad after all." She looked around at the others. "Let that be a lesson to you gentlemen."

Harry grinned in appreciation and took out some books of his own. "Say, Hermione, can I have a boo at the other essays you got back? Only if you've had a chance to look at them, of course. D'you mind?" Harry twiddled his quill between his thumb and two fingers, a look of keen interest on his face.

"Gosh, Harry, aren't you a bullet! Who are you, and what have you done with The Boy Who Lived?" Seamus laughed at the Muggle joke, but Colin just glared disapprovingly at Hermione, his expression daring her to utter another disparaging word. "Of course, I've done proofing almost all of them. Don't keep them too long, mind, I have to get them all duped and out by six o'clock."

"You bet. Hey, would you like help with the dittoing? I'm not as good as you, but I might be able to help … after all, you've been so much help to me." Harry was so excited that he dropped the wad of parchments Hermione had handed him, and had to take a few minutes to fetch them off the floor.

"Well… if you don't mind, I'd love the company, at least. There is an awful lot to do…" She looked with dismay at the huge pile of parchments, which appeared even larger due to its disorder. "Oh, OK, let's do it. Meet me in the Transfiguration classroom at 12:30. You're free then, aren't you?" Harry's nod sealed their bargain, and Hermione happily returned to her work, sorting and smoothing the essay parchments. 

Harry gathered his things with exaggerated deliberation, and said "Gosh, look at the time. If I'm going to help you later, Hermione, I'd better go talk to Ron now, about, er, Divination. See ya!"

-*~~*~~*-

Through the next hour, Lavender's book burned a hole in Hermione's book bag, and she prayed that the other girl wouldn't find her and demand it back.

At the appointed time, she met Harry in Professor McGonagall's classroom, and Hermione was more than glad to note that he'd come loaded down with food from the Great Hall. "Right. Shall we begin?" he said eagerly as they snacked on the sandwiches, pickles, sausage rolls, cream puffs and pumpkin juice he'd spread out on one of the desks. 

"OK, how good are you at the duplicating spell we'll be using? I've brought a heap of extra parchment, so we'll only be replicating the text, not what it's written on." Hermione laid each of the essays out on the worktable next to McGonagall's desk, with a stack of parchments in front of each. She turned and regarded Harry appraisingly, arms crossed.

"Well, why don't I show you? Replicatio!" he said authoritatively, and an exact replica of Padma's essay on the history of Veritaserum appeared on the topmost parchment.

After carefully examining the document, Hermione nodded appreciatively at her best friend. "That's some pretty nifty wand work you've got going there, Harry. Have you been practicing?"

Harry allowed himself a self-deprecating smile. "Oh always, Hermione, always!" He said with a bow. "I wanted it to be perfect for you, so Ron and I did a little bit of work on some other parchments earlier today. You like?"

"Oh, very much. Shall we?"

With Harry's admittedly expert help, the duo were done the duplicating in a little over half an hour. It was excellent practice, Hermione said, for magical stamina and consistency. Harry nodded distractedly, obviously tired by their exertions.

At ten after three, they departed the classroom, and Harry offered to walk Hermione wherever she was going. "To the Owlery, to arrange for the essays to be delivered. It'll probably take me 'til dinner to address them all."

"Can I help you with that? Perhaps you can address the packages, and I can attach them to the owls. They can deliver them to the Great Hall at dinner," Harry said as they made their way down the corridor.

"Gosh, Harry, that would be super. You don't mind?"

"Mind, no! After all, it wouldn't be a quarter as much work if you hadn't agreed to my suggestion of sending it to everyone. I'd be pleased to help!"

Hermione worked very quickly at her job of addressing – it was summoning the owls and attaching the packages that took time. Harry had to rush to keep up, and so he didn't notice the extra-neat copy, tied with green twine, whose recipient was not a student, but a teacher…

-*~~*~~*-

Hermione made her way to Susan's little office, at the end of the corridor by the Charms classroom, murmured the password, and went in. The room was sparsely furnished, but both comfortable and serviceable. Hermione settled herself in an easy chair by the small window, curled up and began to read.

_Her trip to the Spanish Coast was more than she'd imagined, and not at all like she had hoped._

'Funny,' thought Callisto Farmer as she hurried along the boardwalk to keep up with her energetic, if elderly companion, 'I thought that coming to the Costa Del Sol would be a dream come true, but it turned out that it was my **idea** of the trip that was the dream.'

This day certainly seemed dreamlike, what with the salty air lifting her hair and skirt in flirtatious flourishes, and the hot sun turning her delicate, creamy skin a light golden colour. There was certainly enough of it – thanks to her new friend, who had talked her into going shopping, and insisted on making a present of the aqua blue linen sleeveless sheath dress she was wearing; a purchase that she wouldn't have dreamt of buying on her own, and that she couldn't have afforded anyway. 

Her feeble but sincere protests met with gentle stubbornness from her benefactress, who said, "No no, my dear, I must insist. You have such a beautiful figure, and the colour will go perfectly with your wonderful hair." Wonderful wasn't the word Callisto would have used, but then, the soft Spanish Artesian water she had bathed in no doubt had a hand in taming her mounds of unruly brown curls. As the younger woman shook her head in protest, a blue silk headscarf, ear-rings and a pair of high, strappy sandals made their way into her shopping bag, all on her new friend's Platinum AmEx card.

"Meeting you was a Godsend," she said aloud as she moved up alongside the slim, elegant septuagenarian. The other woman smiled cryptically at the young woman by her side. For the – sixth? seventh? – time that day, Callisto wondered at the puzzling mixture of kindness and mystery that surrounded the older woman. 

After a whole day together, Callisto knew almost nothing about her benefactress, save her name, Esmeralda Brockenhurst-Sottier, and what she'd inferred by observation, namely that she was well-heeled, well-bred, and manifestly well-turned-out. Which wasn't much, but Blast! after the week she'd had, it was a relief to just put herself into the care of this obviously capable, and hopefully felicitatious, female.

-

The day at the beach had been a welcome diversion from the series of unfortunate events that had marked Callisto's Vacation in Paradise. Three months earlier, in November, when the Head of Development's secretary Marta had suggested the two pick up a pair of cheap tickets to Spain to escape the drear drabness of the London winter, she'd jumped at the chance.

A researcher at a chemical company, most people who met her saw the Dr. after her name and assumed that she was swimming in it. Not so, she explained carefully to her friends, her parents' friends, people at parties, et cetera (since when did English people, young and old, think it polite to discuss salary with perfect strangers?). There was no money in research these days, she said, and the only guarantee a Doctorate provided was a big debt to Banque Britannique de Mum & Dad (the latter was a joke she heard from a juror when she was defending her thesis – the punch line was supposed to be "Welcome to Euro-pe!" – but possibly her skills as a comedienne were lacking, or underdeveloped? – at any rate, it always fell flat.)

The general flatness of her social life was one of the weights that tipped her so quickly in the direction of Spain. Oh, she knew that she had a fun side, a free side, but it had been so loaded down under hundreds of pounds of books and debts and scholastic ambitions, that when after 17 years of steady school she went looking for it, she found it in such a state of distress that it hadn't been able to be revived, even under the expert tutelage of her two best friends, James and Larry (flaming, but loyal, fun and great).

"Darling, don't tell me that you're still a **virgin**," James said, his back to her as he rummaged impertinently through her closet looking for something suitable for 'fun and sun'.

"Gads, Jimbo, you can't expect her to have given in to one of those skinny, spotty, crisp-eating grad students she ran with, do you?" Larry was culling the already-small pile of clothes that was the result of his life-partner's search. He said to her aside, "Don't worry dear, you'll shop in Spain. All you really need is a pair of PJ's, clothes for the plane and a bikini. You do have a bikini, don't you? Because you don't want to risk buying one down there. Hygiene, you know."

Callisto nodded, both in answer to his question, and in agreement with his assessment of her shopping inclinations.

"No, Larry, but it wasn't just students at that Uni, you know. Calli, honey, didn't you meet any nice teachers?"

Thankfully, she was spared the indignity of answering that particular question by the doorbell. It was a courier, with her ticket. To Spain.

-

Even as she rolled her eyes at the formulaic corniness of it, Hermione felt a tingle up and down her spine, teasing the little hairs at her nape with the promise of an uncustomary, almost forbidden indulgence.

Frankly, between her and the wall, so far this girl Callisto was depressingly familiar, and the comparison wasn't at all flattering. Her two best friends weren't _flaming_, (and they weren't PC 'life-partners', thank Merlin), but she too felt bogged down and de-fun-ified by school responsibilities; she too had a tiny and entirely functional wardrobe; and most importantly, she too had a low-pay, no-glory, un-glamorous research position in her future, she felt sure of it.

The thought was not appealing.

The story seemed so trivial, so escapist, so – _femme_, that Hermione felt almost dirty reading it; as if she were watching French Cable TV, like her father did when he thought no-one else in the house was up. It was obviously a Pretty Woman set-up, with the smart, capable but socially-inept young woman manoeuvred into a position where she would be forced to accept the bounty of the more powerful, more together, older woman. _I wonder when the hero's going to show up_, she thought with not a little bit of anticipation. _Gods, it would be funny to get Snape to read this story – of course, he'd never do it. But if anything in the world could make that man laugh, it'd be something like this._

Quick on the heels of that unexpected thought was another, namely, why she was thinking of her forbidding Potions master at all, but all was forgotten as she returned to the little paperback.

_Trouble started about two days before she even departed for Paradise: in the person of Marta's new boyfriend, whom she'd met at an independent theatre production in Cheapside two weeks earlier._

"Calli, I've got news. Jorge's going to be joining us in Spain! He has a friend who's a stewardess, so he can get a cheap ticket. And he speaks fluent Spanish, so it'll be perfect!" She could see that Marta was trying to put a cheerful face on what she must know would be an unpopular development, and Callisto briefly considered just saying 'Forget it. Take my ticket and give it to … horhay … and I'll stay home and rent Bridget Jones' Diary again'.

But the stubbornness that she'd inherited from her dear Grandfather, may he rest in peace, sprung up like rebar to fortify her backbone, and she simply bit off a deliberately-forced smile (to show her displeasure) and said "Fine. I'll look forward to meeting him. He should be able to do a great job of translating descriptions at the Places Des Artes we'll be going to." Callisto had the satisfaction of seeing Marta's face fall as the import of her last words sank in. She turned on her heel and left.

Embarking on their journey, things quickly deteriorated, as her bags went missing and never arrived in Sevilla, their last flight destination. On the bus-ride to Cadiz, not only was she groped by a kind-looking elderly gentleman and heckled by a gaggle of drunk American Frat boys, but on top of it all her purse was stolen, and with it her passport and all her spending money.

She reported the loss, but on the advice of Marta and Jorge, decided to head to Cadiz anyway to enjoy what she could of the trip. "Calli," Marta said, "I brought lots of money with me. You can pay me back whenever. I'm sure you'll get some cash from the credit card company, or at least from your Travel Insurance."

Jorge was another unpleasant surprise. Obviously not English, while he usually occupied himself with making out with Marta in the most unbecoming way, he looked at Callisto very suggestively during the few times he was alone with her.

Rooming arrangements were another disappointment. Supposedly, Jorge was staying with friends in Cadiz, the famous coastal party town, Spain's answer to Puerto Vallarta (although the locals would say it was the other way 'round). However, he always seemed to end up back in the girls' double room, leaving his smelly socks on the floor and noisily making love with Marta in the other bed.

Things came to an impasse when Marta, in a fit of jealousy after meeting Jorge's stewardess friend in the lounge, got drunk and traipsed off with a black Australian businessman. Returning to the room alone (and admittedly a little tipsy), Callisto woke up to find Jorge in bed with her, making advances.

Tears in her eyes, she tried to fight him off – but he was too strong. He probably would have had his way with her (her pyjamas were gone, so all she had to sleep in was the embarrassingly skimpy black panties that James and Larry had given her as a present before she left), if Marta hadn't walked in at the last possible moment.

Unfortunately, the jilted secretary was too drunk to listen to reason, and immediately kicked both of them out on their ears; Callisto quickly and decisively breaking with Jorge, and striking out on her own. It was barely dawn by then, and with a heavy heart, she slunk off to walk the beaches until it was late enough to call home. That was when she met Esmeralda.

-

"My dear, I am very glad that I met you." The older woman smiled down at the fresh beauty beside her, made all the more lovely by the fact that she honestly didn't realise how attractive she was. Esmeralda couldn't help but notice the approving looks her companion received from foreigners and local men alike – 'It's good that one of us notices it', she thought to herself mischievously. She hesitated to even think of what the poor girl's fate would be if she, Mrs. Edward Brockenhurst-Sottier, hadn't encountered the maiden forlorn on this very beach. Her story was quite fantastic, but the widow instinctively believed it, not seeing any guile or deception in the cinnamon-brown eyes that looked at her with such serene trust.

"Thank you again for the dress – I still think it was outrageously extravagant, especially with the accessories, but it was a welcome extravagance, and truly kind of you." The slim, petite girl looked up with appreciation at the older woman, who managed to look feminine and elegant in her pale lavender silk suit despite her imposing height.

"Well, my dear, not that you didn't look fine in what you were wearing, but if you must know I have an ulterior motive." Callisto turned to her companion with a puzzled look on her face, and nodded to implore Esmeralda to continue.

"You see, I'm not alone here in Cadiz, at least I won't be after tonight – and I was very much hoping to introduce you to my son."

-

_Coo, so Harry was right! She **is** his mother!!_ The gravity of this revelation temporarily stopped Hermione in her tracks, and she returned herself to reality with a shake of her head. She stopped briefly to wonder what percentage of the content was formulaic.

The inclusion of a gay couple was surprising to Hermione, but even more surprising was the casual racism that permeated the book. _Is that usual?_ _Don't they realise that this isn't the fifties? _She thought with a snort of indignation as she read about the descriptions of Marta's liaisons. 

Looking at her pocket watch, she saw that it was dinner-time, and wondered how the owls were making out. _I hope there isn't a traffic jam. And I wonder what Professor Snape will think of our work…_

With a sigh, she looked out the open window at the school grounds, wondering if she should put in an appearance in the Great Hall. _No_, she thought, _I'm staying right here_, and she listened ruefully to the rumbling protests of her stomach, wishing that she'd had the foresight to pack a meal. 

Just then, Susan popped through the door and stopped dead at the sight of her schoolmate, unaccustomed as she was to having her open invitation taken up by the young Gryffindor.

"Oh. Hallo, Hermione, ta?" From Susan, the colloquialism seemed appropriate, not affected like when Harry used it, and Hermione knew that it was an abbreviated way to ask the questions: How are you, Is the place OK, Should I be worried, Do you need anything? She welcomed the brevity.

"Oh hi, Susan. Sorry not to warn you before coming here, I assumed it was still OK."

"Of course, not a problem whatsoever." Susan made right for her small lady's desk and began rummaging through one of the drawers.

"It's beautiful here, with this comfy chair and the view. Thanks!"

"Oh ta. There you are, you little bugger!" Susan hefted a huge, dusty, bound pile of parchment with triumph.

"Listen, Susan, could I ask a favour? Two, actually." At Susan's distracted nod, Hermione said, "Please don't tell anyone you saw me here." Susan's head bobbed as she flipped through the corners of the parchments. "And…would it be too much trouble to ask you to fetch me something to eat? Only if it's not a bother."

Susan looked at her friend quizzically. "Hiding out, are we? Well, that's fine. I'm happy to help you stay incognito, Miss Jones. Or perhaps Miss Farmer, since Grange is another word for farm. Shall we have a secret knock, then? For when I come back?"

Busy with her hoard of parchments, Susan completely missed Hermione's look of distracted puzzlement.

_____________________________________

** A/N: **Thank you to Susanna (aka pigwidgeon37), with whose permission I borrowed the name Esmeralda (from TSO). She also came up with the Replicatio spell, since it's inventing spell names at which I am an absolute duffer.

Kudos or flames? Let me know! 

Many thanks to **Isirta2001 for posting the challenge, and to **WIKTT** for their inspiration.**

TBC

Upload Date: 26-Sep-02

3797 


	5. Chapter 04 Girl gets into a tricky situ...

**The Grist of Her Mill  
_By SilentG _**

**Chapter 4**

The minutes flew by as Hermione ate up the pages of **_Dangerous Escapism_**, laughing at the clichéd plot and writing style, and especially at the numerous revelations that mirrored, or at least approximated Harry's predictions. She sighed with dismay as more similarities piled up between her and the hapless heroine, and she wouldn't have admitted it, but she was just a little bit anxious that things would turn out for the two would-be lovers, because right now, it didn't look too good.

_They would dine in the restaurant at The Paradores, where Esmeralda and her son were staying. It was a much nicer hotel than the one Callisto had shared with Marta, and the stranded English Rose was even gladder that she'd accepted her new friend's insisted-upon generosity._

"I must say, my dear, the sand linen was a fine choice. You look stunning," Esmeralda said to her companion as they sat in the hotel lounge, sipping cocktails and awaiting the arrival of the older woman's son. To Callisto's chagrin, the rest of the day had been devoted to placing her even more in her friend's debt, with the addition of a fitted, cross-strapped cocktail gown, very modern, with wooden buttons all up the back, which emphasised her small, but firm and perky bust. Callisto felt a little self-conscious in the unfamiliar dress, which to her mind just screamed 'sex', and hugged the matching jacket around her. A variety of garments, including intimates, sat in bags in Esmeralda's suite, where the two had gone to freshen up after their long, tiring day. Spaniards dined late, by custom, so the two women had been able to nap briefly before dinner, Esmeralda because of her advancing age - 'I don't sleep very well anymore, my dear', and Callisto because of her interrupted slumber of the previous night.

Against her better judgement, Esmeralda had persuaded her young friend to indulge in a more adventuresome style of make-up than she would usually have chosen, adding dusky eye-shadow and liner to her usual mascara, finely defining her shapely eyebrows with pencil, replacing her normal pink lip gloss with a matte lipstick of dark plum, and completing the look with a touch of very flattering gold glitter. She had to admit that the result was pleasing, if a little unfamiliar.

-*~~*~~*-

Arriving early at the Great Hall, Harry and Ron waited impatiently for dinner to start, anticipating the owl special delivery.

It was brilliant the way everything turned out, as Harry said to his partner in crime while they sat at the almost-deserted Gryffindor table, under the blue and pink replica of the afternoon sky.

Lavender's book had given him the idea. It would be a cinch to write a short story in the vein of those creepy romances – a little exaggerated, of course – but the trick was, how to get them distributed anonymously?!

Harry didn't feel _too_ bad about tricking Hermione into arranging for the Potions practice essays to be handed out to the whole year, and he certainly thought that his help with the duplication etc. had made up for it, even though his assistance in the Owlery gave him a perfect opportunity to add the bogus parchment to the packages (the duplication of which was the 'practice' which made him such an expert!)

They took precautions, of course, giving themselves pseudonyms and disguising their handwriting. No-one would be looking for Siobhan Starmayden and A. Edwina Drubbersnout, that was for sure!

The Hall quickly filled up, and when the last of the teachers sat down at the High Table (Snape, of course – no doubt wishing to spend as little time as possible in the company of his fellow humans), the food appeared and they began to eat.

Immediately, there was a flurry of owls from the rafters, and with a swoosh of powerful wings, the essay parchments were delivered. Ron and Harry both watched with cautious curiosity as the students began opening the packages. It was Ron who first noticed the owl circling the teachers' table, delivering a large package to … _Snape_.

"_Harry_," Ron hissed, "Look…Snape…how did he – " Ron's voice died off as he beheld the perplexed look on the Potions master's face, even as whoops of laughter broke through the hubbub of the dining hall.

"What, Ron … _Oh no_!!! Did _he_ get one? We're _dead_. Might as well bury us now." Harry paled as Snape looked sharply up and directly at the two boys, an expression of pure malevolence darkening his face.

-*~~*~~*-

_"I should warn you about my son, my dear. He's a wonderful man, and I love him dearly, but – he doesn't make it easy for people to like him. He's always been that way, since he was a young boy – to my consternation, I'm sure you can imagine! But he's a good man, strong and trustworthy, and I hope that you can see past his … his customary manner. He's very different once you get to know him, I assure you."_

Callisto privately thought this was a bit of overkill as a build-up. 'I mean, if this is what **she** thinks of him, and she's his **mother**…'

But, she was a guest of this wonderful woman, and if Esmeralda taken to Callisto that quickly, she must have good taste in companionship, right? Right.

Esmeralda had been as vague and mysterious about her son as she had been about herself, but Callisto had managed to find out the basics: he was thirty-eight, exactly fourteen years older than herself, he was an only child, and he had inherited his name, Mason, from his dead father. He had a vocation, which he undertook out of a personal interest (she wouldn't say what it was, only that it matched perfectly his wit, intelligence and discernment), but he still managed to find time to fulfil his duties as the Master of his family estate.

The proud mother stated that had never married, although Callisto got the feeling that there was more to it than that. She didn't press her friend, however, as a uniformed waiter appeared that moment to inform the Señora that a gentleman awaited them in the foyer. "Send him on, if you please," was the reply, and the waiter departed with a deferential nod.

Sitting perpendicular to the lounge entrance, Callisto looked for him out of the corner of her eye while continuing to chit-chat with the widow. Soon, a tall, dark, distinguished man appeared, and nodded haughtily to the tuxedoed host who pointed discreetly in the direction of the two women. Without a word to the attendant, he strode purposefully towards them.

Callisto couldn't help but admire his elegant form, which, enclosed in a perfectly-cut and immaculate black silk suit, was lean but obviously well-shaped and muscular. As he approached the little table, she noticed him removing his leather driving gloves, and tried to shy away from the perceptive gaze of his piercing, dark eyes.

Staring at the small, flickering candle in front of her, Callisto tried to suppress the urge she had to cover herself and shy away from his look, which seemed to penetrate her defences and ruthlessly expose her, naked and vulnerable before him.

It wasn't until she sensed his strong, masculine presence behind the empty third chair that she dared to look up, just as Esmeralda pronounced the introductions: "Callisto, may I present my son, Mason P. Sottier."

Her eyes widening with shock, she saw the mysterious stranger withdraw his proffered hand and take a step back from the table.

"You!!" they said in unison.

-

Hermione dragged herself away from the story reluctantly, when she finally noticed a scratching at the window, which she'd closed just a few minutes earlier to keep out the cooling evening air. Just then Susan appeared, flushed and breathless, at the door.

"Hermione, you've got to come quick. You're wanted in the Great Hall! It's urgent!!"

"What – " Hermione was interrupted by the owl, who hooted indignantly at her before dropping a large package in the chair she'd just vacated.

Susan spoke as Hermione opened the package. "Actually, it has something to do with that. Apparently – "

Hermione held up an unfamiliar parchment, entitled _Her Secret Shame_, and her face went white as she scanned it. "Oh no," she said despairingly and followed Susan out of the room.

-*~~*~~*-

_To find out what made Hermione cringe, check the next chapter - Her Secret Shame._

_____________________________________

**A/N: **As you may have already guessed, Mason P. Sottier is an anagram. Figure it out! If you want a hint, go to http://www.wordsmith.org/anagram/advanced.html. You'll get a better result if you say in the parameters that you want only two words in the result, no shorter than 6 words each.

I noticed when I went to post Chapter 1 that Isirta2001 named her story 'Snape's Secret Shame'** –** I didn't mean to copy her with 'Her Secret Shame' – hope you don't mind, Isirta.

Kudos or flames? email me!. 

Many thanks to **Isirta2001** for posting the challenge, and to **WIKTT** for their inspiration.

TBC

Upload Date: 01-Oct-02

1526


	6. Chapter 04a 'Her Secret Shame' Boy res...

**Her Secret Shame **

**_An Annotated Mills & Boon Romance In Digest Form _**

_By Siobhan Starmayden and A. Edwina Drubbersnout _

Carmelita Sandblower sat in the Three Broomsticks, sipping Butterbeer and attempting to alleviate the ennui that had overtaken her like Communism through Eastern Europe. In her hand she held a bunch of neatly-bundled letters, each one a tear-stained reminder of the life she must leave behind, a life that she could never return to. 

These letters were her secret shame, and that was why she was occupying the corner booth, dropping each page individually into the cold hearth, cold like her prospects of love, and burning it with a flame that could only mock the hot passion she had known. 

"Incendio." Some of the pages were so wet with tears that they wouldn't light. Those she took and tore into tiny little pieces like the pieces of her life, which she must now try to gather together, like Purdy and Pongo's 15 puppies, each piece trying desperately to squirm and wriggle away. 

**A/N – ****AD:** Siobhan, you're off your chump! No-one's going to get the reference to Communism, and where's the bloke? I want to finish this before I grow old and die, could we get on with it please? I'm getting a pain in my arse sitting and reading this drivel. Also, aren't some of those comparisons a little – well, hackneyed? Your paper and your parts are pure crap. 

**A/N – SS:** Edwina, all things come to those who wait. Rome wasn't built in a day. Perfection takes time. And as for your arse, well, Abscess makes the heart grow fonder, yuk yuk yuk!! 

No, but seriously, I get what you say about my writing style. So, I have two things to say to you: Beta Version, and Your Turn. 

It was as she was using her pearly-white teeth to tear apart a particularly tough piece of parchment, that she sensed a presence at the door. It was a presence perceived rather than felt. She unwillingly raised her tear-stained face to the shadowy presence, standing taut and sardonic in the backlit barroom door, and she felt her bosom heave with longing. 

Slowly, inexorably, the man, dripping with masculine ironicism, stalked into the room, like a wild animal on the hunt. The smell of cheroots filled Carmelita's sensitive, softly-curved nostrils, and she knew in an instant that it must be him. Christopher St. Nicholas, otherwise known as The Saint. The man she wept for. The man she longed for. The man she left. 

The man who came for her. 

Striding purposefully forward, the man known as The Saint grasped Carmelita painfully by the shoulders, drew her roughly into his arms, held her against his taut body, already hardening with desire, and kissed her deeply on her softly-curved mouth. Suddenly released from his arms, strong like rebar, Carmelita slumped back onto the barstool. 

Without a word, The Saint, the smoker, the man she loved, dropped a thick, creamy 

**A/N – SS:** Edwina, you gotta be kidding. This is a family story. 

**A/N – ****AD:** Siobhan, will you please open your eyes and shut your mouth?! 

envelope on the table before her. Wordlessly he stalked from the room, and she heard the chirp of a Muggle car alarm being turned off, and the soft 'click' of The Saint's Viper door opening and closing. 

Grasping the envelope with trepidation, she opened it. In it was only one thing. A key. The key to all the joy and fulfillment that had heretofore been denied her…the key to Christopher's car. 

Now that she had the means to enter and even drive his car, things would never be the same. And yet…things would never be different the way they were going to be. 

The End. 

**A/N – SS:** Edwina, can I convey to you how ardently I admire and love you? 

**A/N – ****AD:** Siobhan, yes you can, but not here, not now. 

651 


	7. Chapter 05 Boy berates girl

**The Grist of Her Mill  
_By SilentG _**

**Chapter 5 **

Severus Snape sat at the High Table, thinking that if he didn't know for a fact there was to be bread pudding with clotted cream and maple syrup for dessert, he'd just up and quit Hogwarts here and now, walk straight out the front doors, and go and live anonymously as a Bezoar Harvester in Turkey. 

He'd been expecting the owls when they arrived, delivering the Potions essays, and to be honest with himself, he had actually been looking forward to seeing them. And not only Miss Granger's, whose work was the only reason he'd requested to be added to the list of recipients. Not that he'd ever admit it, but since Neville's departure from his Laboratory, this year's crop of Upper-sixths had been shaping up to be his best ever, and there was no denying it: this was largely due to Hermione Granger. It was insupportable, really, actually enjoying brief moments of his classroom time because of a _Gryffindor, but there it was. Not that he'd ever admit it. _

He'd noticed Potter and Weasley looking around the Great Hall before they began to inhale their dinners, and he'd assumed they were looking for their Oracle, Granger, who wasn't at dinner for some reason. She didn't turn up, however, and the anticipation on the boys' faces abated when the owls began to arrive. 

The biggest owl in the school, Borgnine (named by some long-gone Muggle Studies professor), swooped down from the rafters, circled the High Table, and dropped his burden quite gracefully into Snape's outstretched hands. He got a curious look from Minerva and endured Dumbledore's _significantly upraised eyebrows – Snape roundly discouraged students from corresponding with him, even on school business - before focusing his attention on his delivery. _

A dismissive shrug was his only acknowledgement of their interest in him, and anyway, their attention was quickly diverted as _pandemonium erupted on the floor. _

When conflicts and rowdiness arose at the student tables, usually only one house was involved, or a few students flanking an aisle between tables. This made it fairly easy to determine what was happening and diffuse the situation. Seldom was more than one teacher needed, and the melees were often extinguishable with one well-placed 'group glare' directly from the table (a technique known only to parents and teachers of teenagers). 

Tonight, mere seconds after the packages had been distributed to the Upper-sixths, a wave of laughter and raised voices swept across the floor to the High Table, and students began getting up from the benches and gathering into excited, distracted clutches. 

The protocol was, under such circumstances, for the four Heads of House to rise, cast an individual glare at their respective house table and, barring that, signal the Prefects. If that didn't do the trick, the next step was to descend from the Head Table and approach their House tables. Synchronous with this action, the Headmaster would make eye contact with the Head Boy and Girl from his chair, and signal for them to act. Dumbledore would intervene only as a last resort. 

As there were no students, including Prefects and Head Students, paying any attention to the Head Table, the normal routine would have been ineffective. So Sprout, McGonagall and Flitwick all rose and moved as a body towards the milling groups of students, trying as they went to find and corral a Prefect from their own House. 

Snape, however, did not receive the signal, transmitted by mere eye contact, for this corporate offensive, because he had opened his essay package and was looking with confusion, then dismay, then apoplectic rage at the document at the top of the pile. 

His stomach sinking under the weight of impending doom, Professor Snape closed his eyes. 

-*~~*~~*-

Harry dragged his gaze away from the murderous glare of his Potions master to see his own head of house looking speculatively at him from the other end of the Gryffindor table. Turning to look up at the scowling Professor sitting next to her own empty chair at the High Table, realisation dawned on her face and, her lips pressed together so tightly that only a thin line remained, Professor McGonagall made her way through the throngs of milling students to stand next to the two boys. "Am I to understand that you two had something to do with ... _this?" She gestured expansively at the chaos around her. "Where is Miss Granger?" she demanded. Without awaiting an answer, she turned to the Head Girl Susan Bones, who had just then appeared at her elbow. "Fetch Miss Granger." _

"Yes, Professor," she replied before scurrying off. 

Professor McGonagall turned back to her two recalcitrant students. "Do you care to explain yourselves now, or shall we await the presence of your solicitor?" 

-*~~*~~*-

The first few moments after the essays had been delivered were positively golden. One by one, as the students opened the packages and started reading, they howled with laughter and began passing the parchments around to their schoolmates. 

It was gratifying to see how the humour was appreciated - the reactions of those present at the study-group on Saturday were most noticeable, because they recognised the context immediately. Harry and Ron grinned at each other, while making a show of opening their own packages, although they knew exactly what was inside... _('...the zero-hour comportment of the prankster is a major, but often overlooked, component of a successful prank...' - Gred and Forge Weasley). _

They both knew that Hermione would be absolutely furious at them for putting her in such a position, but they also knew that she would cover for them, and her word in the matter was so watertight that no action could be taken against anyone without it. She of course would know that they were responsible, but they'd make it up to her somehow - exactly how was a little hazy at the moment. However, without her evidence, the boys reckoned, it would be virtually impossible for the prank to be pinned on them - they'd covered their bases that well. 

Two unforeseen elements were, unfortunately, making it look likely that their seemingly ironclad plan was in serious jeopardy. 

The first was the unpredicted reaction of the students, most of whom passed close to the two boys expressly to give them a congratulatory thumbs-up, or even to voice their appreciation for the story. Harry and Ron were frankly perplexed that _anyone would be so certain it was them - the fact that the __whole school did was, to say the least, dismaying. _

The second was less obvious, but much, much worse. The fact that Professor Snape had received a copy of the essays and, therefore, the parody. That was bad, very bad. And although they would under normal circumstances consider his accusatory glare a matter of course, not to be concerned about; the suspicious behaviour of their schoolmates made it very unlikely that their Head of House would attempt to insulate them from the wrath of their biggest detractor. 

Ron gulped as he looked at McGonagall, who stood, grim-faced, with her arms crossed . Harry was preoccupied with the High Table, where Snape was engaged in a heated conversation with the Headmaster who, for once, looked very concerned. With a sigh, Harry turned back to Professor McGonagall. "Professor, Hermione didn't have anything to do with it. She didn't know. You might as well just talk to us." The disapproving Transfiguration Professor held out her hand, and Harry gave her the wad of parchments, which had gotten crushed in his nervous fingers. 

-*~~*~~*-

Flanking Hermione, Susan Bones hurriedly warded the door to her little office, and the two girls rushed at a race-walk back towards the Great Hall. Susan briefed her on the events in the Great Hall, but Hermione was too preoccupied with the memory of the horrid, inflammatory little document to really hear. _Professor Snape and the Headmaster are going to think we're mocking them_, she thought with horror. _No-one has ever ridiculed a teacher like this before – we'll all be expelled!_

She arrived at the Great Hall to glimpse Snape at the Head Table looking angrier than she'd ever seen him, and Dumbledore looking very flustered and upset. An uneasy silence blanketed the room, which was under the watchful glare of the teachers, while a bunch of embarrassed-looking Prefects made their way through the room, collecting the offending parchments. 

As they approached their respective dining tables, the Headmaster signalled to them to approach him. Seeing Hermione, Snape scowled blackly, muttering something under his breath. Dumbledore said, "Miss Bones, kindly see your Head of House. Miss Granger, Professor McGonagall and I would like to see you in my office." 

-*~~*~~*-

At the High Table, Snape scanned the parchment, which had the apt title _Her Secret Shame, then read it carefully through. Rage and apprehension fought for space in his gut, although the former was what showed on his face as he gazed at the two most likely suspects. As often happened, their expressions immediately betrayed their guilt, which for once left Snape profoundly dismayed, rather than triumphant. The idea that they knew, or even suspected, __his secret shame, was intolerable. _

But how had they found out? Admittedly, seeing **_Dangerous Escapism on the table at the library on Saturday had been a shock, but he thought he'd handled it without revealing anything. Despite the fact that the unexpected discovery had startled him into departing abruptly, unable to take full advantage of his original intention (which was, with luck, to mock - or at the very least, to goad, chide or distract-- the assembly). But he hadn't betrayed himself, had he? _**

And then on Monday, after Potions, he had asked Miss Granger to stay and speak to him before he'd seen the book. If he had seen it, he would certainly have tried to foreshorten her stay rather than prolong it. _Prolong it? __Now where did that idea come from? Of course, the interview was exactly of the duration required to cover the necessary information. _

When he did notice the dratted novel, it was too late, because Miss Granger had noticed it also. The thought of Miss Granger reading it panicked him so much that he briefly considered confiscating it, but dismissed the idea immediately, thinking (rightly) that doing so would just make her more interested. 

He had already aroused her suspicions, with his uncharacteristically clumsy request to see their practice essays, and then his odd behaviour after they both saw the book. He was forced to back-pedal, just to keep from sinking. 

All he could do was watch her stick the dangerous item into her bag and walk away, and hope that she was above indulging in such plebeian drivel. _Dear Merlin, let her disdain it, as well she should. It was a hope, but a faint one. _

Turning to vent his spleen on the Headmaster, he regretted again the out-gassing of hubris that had brought him to this moment of peril. 

-*~~*~~*-

The event horizon of his doom was the staff dinner customarily held the Friday after the students left for the summer. Unlike most social functions, this was an event that Severus Snape actually enjoyed attending, chiefly because he could freely lambaste students from other houses without the other staff members taking points from Slytherin in retaliation. 

This night, however, the beginning of the first summer since 1981with Sirius Black at large, talk was not on the students. 

Conversation centred around the condemned man's guilt or innocence, and while Snape was by no means the only professor who held to the conviction that Black was guilty and would be dead before the end of the year, he was the only one at the table who took the matter personally. He was particularly rankled by Dumbledore's placid assertion that Black would be exonerated before the end of Harry's school career. "That will be a tall order, Albus," Snape said acidly, "since the boy is bound to get expelled sooner or later." 

The talk had been moderately civil up to then, but of course McGonagall had to jump in and defend her precious Potter, and Albus just smiled beatifically and ate his fourth serving of Crème Caramel, and as a result Snape went into a white-hot rage. As Snape threw his napkin down and prepared to get up, Minerva said "Albus, how certain are you that Sirius Black is innocent?" 

The old man replied, "As certain as I am that I didn't shave this morning." The laughter around the dining table was appreciative, but strained. 

"Severus," Minerva called to his back as he headed for the door, "would you care to enter into a wager?" The smile on her face didn't quite meet her eyes. 

"I would, Minerva," Snape stopped but didn't turn around, "but I don't trust you to set the stakes." 

"Nor I you, Severus. What about a little friendly bet," Snape turned as she was speaking, "on whether or not Black gets cleared. I say he will. You say he won't. Well??" 

Wagers between the heads of the two rival houses were legendary, and the conversation shot back and forth like a comedy routine. "Time frame?" 

"Let's say, since Albus and you are so _certain, before Potter leaves Hogwarts." _

"For any reason?" 

"I'm willing to agree to that." 

"Stakes?" 

"We'll let Albus decide. Do we have a bet?" 

"Yes." Snape approached the dinner table, leaned over between Sprout and Flitwick, and shook Minerva's stiffly-proffered hand. They both turned to Albus with inquiring looks. 

"Do I have to name the stakes now? I'd like to think about it," the Headmaster said in a vague voice. He often put on his doddering, bemused persona when his two favourite staff members fought. 

"I am prepared to trust you, Albus. I don't know about Severus." Minerva gave Snape a cool look and he replied by rolling his eyes. 

"I trust Albus only because he knows that I'd resign if I thought that he was cheating me; and if he did, whom would you have to yap to, Minerva? I suggest that the stakes, whatever Albus names, be subject to the agreement of the winner, if you concur?" She nodded. 

Snape turned and went, with more grace and less acrimony than previously. The conversation had been a success; he called his dearest friend 'Albus' before he left. 

Professor McGonagall caught up with Snape in the passageway outside the staff room the next morning. "Severus," she called as she struggled to match his long strides. He stopped dead, causing her to overshoot him and backtrack to his still, forbidding form. 

"Minerva." 

"Severus, do you recognise the name Harry Howey? He was a potion-maker of note." Without waiting for any acknowledgement, she continued, "He was known for many things, but I remember particularly a definition he coined, for the word 'positive' – it is _to be wrong in a loud voice." Astonishingly, for her age and station, she batted her eyes at him as she spoke. _

"As I recall, Minerva, you could use that adjective to describe yourself. After all, you agreed to a wager with no set stakes, so you could theoretically lose _anything if you are wrong about Black." _

"Well no, actually, Severus - I never said that I was positive - I placed the bet because Albus was positive. And he isn't risking anything." 

-*~~*~~*-

Peter Pettigrew was apprehended in a botched Death Eater raid on the Auror School in Scotland at the end of Harry Potter's fifth year at Hogwarts. Several Aurors and students lost their lives, including one veteran Auror who threw himself in front of a curse cast by another Death Eater to take out Pettigrew, who was already in custody and being led away. 

It was a coup for The Ministry, the Aurors, The Order, and Dumbledore - the first Death Eater captured alive during an altercation, and proof positive (for most wizards and witches) that Voldemort was truly back. 

Much of the information they had hoped to get from Pettigrew turned out to be incomplete or useless, but he was able to confirm (under duress) the innocence of Sirius Black in the murders for which he had been incarcerated at Azkaban for over a decade. Against the advice of Dumbledore and many Ministry officials, Peter Pettigrew was administered the Dementors' kiss - the last person to endure that punishment before the Dementors fell under the power of Voldemort. 

Black had, of course, returned with triumphant pomp to Hogwarts and Dumbledore, and wasted no time gloating at Snape as he endlessly retold the tale of his exoneration to enthralled Professors in the staff-room. 

Snape was not so petty as to wish death upon a man unjustly accused, so it wasn't pure malice that drove him to say, on the occasion of their first meeting, 'Oh, you. Last I heard you were in line to get the chop at the RSPCA. What happened? Did you escape by leading the dog-catchers to Lupin at full moon?'. 

Needless to say, his comments drew disapproval his way and made the other professors fawn over the dog-boy even more, but only Minerva and Albus knew the real reason for his rancour. He was understandably embarrassed and apprehensive about paying the penalty for his arrogance (for once)...and he wouldn't have long to wait. 

Thankfully, both of his tormentors knew better than to broadcast Minerva's victory - if Black had found out about the wager, and the result, Severus would truly have never forgiven them. 

But that didn't mean that they were gentle on him, either. 

The three senior staff members met in the neutral territory of the Headmaster's anteroom over tea on a Sunday afternoon, shortly after Black's departure. With glum resignation, Snape approached the table set for three, and hoped silently that whatever the penalty, it wouldn't involve fancy dress. Or worse, being nice to Gryffindors. 

It didn't look good. Snape made a statement to his two companions as he sat down, to the effect that he hoped whatever was expected of him wouldn't negatively impact his House, or anything to do with school dynamics, and didn't they agree that that was only fair? 

Minerva smiled smugly and said nothing. Albus kept his eyes on the tray of toast in front of him, and he looked as if he were chewing on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Tears were actually forming in the corners of his eyes! 

"Severus, you will be pleased to know," Albus began, ('or not'), Minerva muttered to herself, "that we have agreed upon your stakes in the wager, and your accomplishment of the penalty should have no impact on the school whatsoever." Minerva tried to suppress the giggle that wanted to erupt at the end of his speech, but it came out anyway, sounding more like a whinny. 

"It was Albus' suggestion, and I readily agreed. You will have one year to complete your task, and as a special concession to you, because you have always been so good to me," at this point both Albus and Minerva started laughing out loud, "it can be arranged so that _no-one need ever know about it." Severus Snape sat looking daggers at his two companions, while they regained their composure. _

Albus suggested that they all share a pleasant tea before discussing the penalty, and Severus agreed with ill-grace. It was perhaps understandable that he didn't relish the charming repast or the company, since Minerva muttered under her breath as she handed him her cup to be filled, "Eat now, Severus, you may not be able to enjoy another meal until this time next year." 

Minerva's words held no malice, only good-natured humour; but Severus' animosity must have shown on his face, because Albus said "Now, you two - Minerva, it was a fair bet and you won. No need to rub it in. Severus, you lost fair and square, and you may not use this incident or its consequences? as an excuse to be beastly to either Minerva or her House. That's an order." 

The tea was fairly pleasant, considering. Snape, for the most part, glowered and grumped, spoke little and answered in monosyllables, but the infrequent times when he seemed to forget himself, and bantered almost playfully with Minerva, brought a tender smile to the face of his employer. 

Albus had the tiniest apprehension that his penalty would be just a little bit too much for his precious Potions master... Severus would certainly think so. 

But the man was so strong, so capable, that he was nearly always operating below his capacity, even with all the extra work and responsibilities he took on at the school. And Severus was so intractable, so rigid… He needed to be shaken out of his rut every now and then. Severus Snape was a master of creating an environment where he could stay the same, and relate to others the same way, for indefinite periods. It was understandable, a source of comfort, but it was useful only up to a point. In Albus' opinion, he had reached that point. Hopefully, Severus' task would move him past it. 

-*~~*~~*-

Only the desiccated remains of the meal lingered on the little table. The toast, scones, butter, jam, farmers cheese, cold ham, two kinds of tea and petits fours had been vanquished and their wounded cowered under the linen napkins discarded by the three professors. Snape sat stiffly with a sour look on his face, staring through Dumbledore's forehead. It was the way he looked when Flitwick stood up to speak at staff meetings. He was impatient. 

With a sigh, Dumbledore rose. "Shall we go?" 

"Go? Where?" Snape said with a scowl. Minerva stood also, leaving Snape alone at the table. 

"To inform you of your task, Severus. It will be much easier for me to show than to tell you." The two old Gryffindors were giggling again. It was almost _too much for a poor, long-suffering Slytherin to bear! _

"Perhaps I don't _want to be shown," he replied petulantly, but joined them anyway. They retired to the library. Not the demesne of Madame Pince, but the Headmaster's private library, and it was as different from that staid wooden sanctuary of research as it could possibly be. _

Snape had been there before, of course, to ooh and aah whenever Albus added a shelf, upholstered chair, author, book, chachke, doily or flavour of sweet to his little haven. 

It was, of course, supremely comfortable, and supremely excessive and chaotic in its decoration. It was a small, fairly neat room, about 20 by 20. The walls were almost completely covered in books, which seemed to be arranged randomly, but were in fact organised by a rotating indexing system of Dumbledore's own design - currently in reverse alphabetical order by first word. Every Christmas, during the staff dinner, Dumbledore told and retold his story about leaving Lucius Malfoy in there for several hours, watching him through a magic mirror getting madder and madder, impatiently waiting _and unable to find a single book he wanted. Even Snape was hard-pressed to avoid smiling at that story. At least the first four or five times he heard it. "And to think, he was too incensed to think of using 'Accio'," was the punch line. _

The six or so comfortable over-stuffed chairs were all upholstered differently: brocade, velvet, combed cotton, even something that looked like _fur. One had an oddly-cut, itchy-looking cobalt-blue chiffon slipcover. The prints ran from mediaeval scenes to intricately-patterned dragons to voluptuous, jostling florals. The colours were innumerable. _

Each chair had a little table next to it. 'Somewhere for people to put their teacups and spectacles,' Dumbledore had said. The real reason for the tables, though, was as a place to put the countless bowls and trays and tiered dishes of sweets. There was so much candy in the room that it actually _smelled sweet. _

The Headmaster opened the door and gestured them into the room. "Albus, one day, you're going to come in here and eat so much candy that you'll be found weeks later, perfectly preserved, with hummingbirds gnawing on your femur." 

Albus smiled angelically. "If only, Severus, if only. It would be a pleasant end, to pass over to the other side feeding the birds." He got the dreamy look on his face that indicated that he knew he'd said something funny and was waiting for everyone to get it. 

Minerva and Severus crooked eyebrows at each other as they seated themselves in the cosy room. "Hummingbirds can't gnaw, Severus, they don't have teeth." 

"Well, Minerva, thank you for that observation. I am no more convinced that you have a sense of humour; but I am reassured to know that you do occasionally use your ears. For your information, I didn't want to say 'peck', I feared that it might offend your delicate Gryffindor sensibilities." Snape was so enjoying the little repartee that he temporarily forgot to sulk, and actually got up from his chair to fetch a dish of Bertie Bott's Chocolate Bangers, Minerva's favourite sweet. 

"Always has to have the last word, does our Potions master. Well, you might have the last word, Severus, but I'm going to have the last laugh. Are we even?" Snape conjured a small napkin for the melted chocolate on his colleague's fingers. 

"That remains to be seen, but I highly doubt it." 

-*~~*~~*-

Albus settled himself in a soft-looking chair upholstered in a patchwork design that moved. He put his hands on his knees, sighed, and said, "Severus. You always were an intelligent, if indifferent student, but what I remember you excelling in in all your studies was writing papers." Both teachers looked at him expectantly, and he smiled back at them and nodded his head. There was a pregnant pause. 

"So what, Albus, for my payment are you going to make me write lines?" Snape's face resumed its customary scowl. "Or perhaps my penance is to write all of Harry Potter's essays for him?" Albus just kept smiling. "Is this a guessing game?" Snape frowned. 

"No, Severus," Albus replied, smiling still, "I was just thinking to myself how much I love the both of you, and how happy I am that you've learned to get along." The words were obsequious, but the tears in the Headmaster's eyes were real. 

The two professors were accustomed to the Headmaster's bursts of sentiment while in this room - something about the atmosphere encouraged confessions. Which was why Snape was always careful to keep his mouth shut. Luckily, before anything even more embarrassing could be said, Albus waved his wand and summoned a handful of small Muggle paperbacks. 

"They are not filed together at present, but I wanted you to see them, Severus," he said. Snape moved to stand behind the Headmaster's chair, and Minerva stood by his side. 

There were seven of them. Not a set, but published by the same company, and all with similar cover designs. They were thin, more novellas than anything, and all featured similarly ambiguous titles: _Nobody's Wife, Three Guesses, Never the Bride, Uncrossable Lines, Without Passion, His Heroine, and__ Blindfolded Hearts. _

Severus picked up **_Blindfolded Hearts, noting that the author was also the same for all seven books. He flipped to the inside back cover and started reading. _**

_Lottie Guenther's first inspiration to write love stories came when her husband proposed to her on bended knee the night the two of them finished Medical School, he as a Doctor and she as a nurse. Since then, her love of romance has been fed by two round-the-world yacht trips with her mate as Skipper and her as - first mate! - and, yes, the birth of her three children. Lottie loves the quiet life, and lives on a small farm in Lincolnshire with her husband, their two youngest children, and four very ancient draught ponies. Lottie Guenther is a pseudonym._

"Draught ponies, yachting, Medical School - what is this all about, Albus? Who is this woman, Lottie Guenther?" 

"She sir, is me sir." 

_____________________________________ 

**A/N:** More **Blackadder** references, some in previous chapters. I'll enumerate them in the endnotes. 

The reference 'gnawing on your femur' is in honour of **Bridget Jones' Diary**, the '…being gnawed to death by Alsatians…' line. 

Bertie Bott's Chocolate Bangers? No, for once, I'm not being rude. They go with the beans, o'course! When I lived in England, I never ate bangers and beans (I'm a vegetarian), but I did enjoy a curry-flavoured vegetarian convenience food called 'Bean Bangers'… True story. 

Kudos or flames? please review!!! 

Many thanks to **Isirta2001** for posting the challenge and giving me advice, to **Baroness VonLooney** for Brit-picking it, to my wonderful new beta **pigwidgeon37**, and to **WIKTT** for their inspiration. 

TBC 

Upload Date: 28-Oct-02 

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	8. Chapter XX Challenge Requirements spoil...

**_Severus Snape – The Romance Novelist Challenge_****__**

_Rules/Conditions as follows:_

_1)__SS is a secret writer of Mills and Boon type novels._

_2)__No-one knows this…for a while._

_3)__Hermione finds out. _

_4)__HG can still be at Hogwarts as a student, or as a graduate._

_5)__There must be a reference to one of SS's novels. Title is up to the writer…._

_6)__The following phrases must be incorporated:_

_ "- alleviate the ennui which had overtaken him/her like   
Communism through Eastern Europe."_

_ "May I convey to how much I ardently admire and love you?"_

_ "Your paper and your parts are pure crap."_

_ "Abscess makes the heart grow fonder."_

_ "You're off your chump!"_

_And some reference somewhere to a "heaving bosom".___

_Characters may be OOC if required. Silliness is not a prerequisite, but it helps…_


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